“Poor man! he had doubtless known some great sorrow.”

“Your mother had been closeted with him for some minutes, when she called me to her and said that she had just received good news of the general.  She was in tears, and had before her a large packet of papers; it was a kind of journal, which your father had written every evening to console himself; not being able to speak to her, he told the paper all that he would have told her.”

“Oh! where are these papers, Dagobert?”

“There, in the knapsack, with my cross and our purse.  One day I will give them to you:  but I have picked out a few leaves here and there for you to read presently.  You will see why.”

“Had our father been long in India?”

“I gathered from the few words which your mother said, that the general had gone to that country, after fighting for the Greeks against the Turks—­for he always liked to side with the weak against the strong.  In India he made fierce war against the English, they had murdered our prisoners in pontoons, and tortured the Emperor at St. Helena, and the war was a doubly good one, for in harming them he served a just cause.”

“What cause did he serve then?”

“That of one of the poor native princes, whose territories the English, lay waste, till the day when they can take possession of them against law and right.  You see, my children, it was once more the weak against the strong, and your father did not miss this opportunity.  In a few months he had so well-trained and disciplined the twelve or fifteen thousand men of the prince, that, in two encounters, they cut to pieces the English sent against them, and who, no doubt, had in their reckoning left out your brave father, my children.  But come, you shall read some pages of his journal, which will tell you more and better than I can.  Moreover, you will find in them a name which you ought always to remember; that’s why I chose this passage.”

“Oh, what happiness!  To read the pages written by our father, is almost to hear him speak,” said Rose.

“It is as if he were close beside us,” added Blanche.

And the girls stretched out their hands with eagerness, to catch hold of the leaves that Dagobert had taken from his pocket.  Then, by a simultaneous movement, full of touching grace, they pressed the writing of their father in silence to their lips.

“You will see also, my children, at the end of this letter, why I was surprised that your guardian angel, as you say, should be called Gabriel.  Read, read,” added the soldier, observing the puzzled air of the orphans.  “Only I ought to tell you that, when he wrote this, the general had not yet fallen in with the traveller who brought the papers.”

Rose, sitting up in her bed, took the leaves, and began to read in a soft and trembling voice, Blanche, with her head resting on her sister’s shoulder, followed attentively every word.  One could even see, by the slight motion of her lips, that she too was reading, but only to herself.